


He Looks To Me

by teyla



Series: He Looks To Me [1]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-27
Updated: 2006-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-02 17:59:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teyla/pseuds/teyla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm remembers. Trip listens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Looks To Me

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta**: Sita Z, TLI

_Who's gonna take you home and hold you when things aren't so bright?  
She looks to me, she looks to me alright.  
~ The Red Hot Chili Peppers, She Looks To Me_   


* * *

Trip was standing outside of Malcolm's quarters and was ringing the bell for the second time. Again, there was no answer. He wished Malcolm would open up. He didn't know what exactly had upset him like this, but Trip certainly hadn't done it on purpose. It had seemed to be alright at the time.

They'd met in Trip's quarters for a late dinner and a movie, something that they did frequently and both enjoyed a lot. When they had done it the first time, it had been more like a friendship thing, but had quickly evolved into something else. They'd long ago talked about the issue, and had decided that they were both inclined to let things take their natural course, but wouldn't rush anything. And they hadn't; for several months, it had been just the occasional meeting where he and Malcolm would cuddle up together on the sofa in front of the vid screen and would watch either one of those heavy, problematic political movies Malcolm liked or some nineteen-seventies revival splatter horror that made Trip happy and Malcolm groan in agony. Trip had noticed Malcolm getting more and more relaxed during those meetings, at one time about a month ago the armory officer had even fallen asleep sitting beside Trip on the sofa during _Hostel_. Tonight, when the credits of this night's movie had been scrolling down the screen, it had seemed like this would be the night when things took the turn from the occasional kiss to an actual relationship. And it had seemed to be okay with Malcolm; at first, at least. He had seemed as if he was enjoying himself, had encouraged things to progress further, even. Until Trip had touched him. There had been nothing forced about the gesture, Malcolm had been inviting him to do it. But when Trip's hand had settled over the bulge in Malcolm's pants, he'd felt the other man go rigid. Trip had pulled back immediately, but damage had obviously been done. Malcolm's eyes had gone wide when he'd looked at him, and Trip wasn't quite sure what he had seen in them, whether it had been surprise or actually the fear that it had looked like. Malcolm had gotten to his feet, had mumbled something about being sorry and had fled from Trip's quarters. Trip hadn't understood it. He still didn't understand it. They'd been taking it so slowly that at times Trip had had the impression that they weren't going anywhere at all. But he'd been patient, had never pushed the other man. Had never made him feel under pressure. Tonight had felt right, had felt like the night to finally risk something and offer himself to Malcolm. And Malcolm had accepted. Until he'd suddenly decided otherwise and left, that was.

Trip raised a hand and knocked on the bulkhead, then rang the doorbell again. "Malcolm?" he asked. "Malcolm, please, open up. I need to talk to you."

At first he thought his request would be ignored again, then he heard a shuffle on the other side of the door. A second later the door slid open, and Malcolm stood there. Fresh tears hung in his eyes, but the expression on his face wasn't a hurt one. It looked more like resigned exasperation, the look of an alcoholic who after five sober years has treated himself to a shot of vodka. Trip stayed where he was, unsure of what to do.

"Well, come on in," Malcolm said finally, gesturing with one hand. "I don't want to do this on the corridor."

Trip took a step forward and the door slid shut behind him. Malcolm turned away and walked over to a small shelf.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" he asked, and after a second's hesitation, Trip nodded.

"Tea would be great," he said.

Malcolm boiled up some water and filled a teapot, then hung two tea bags over the rim and carried the pot and two cups over to a small table next to his bunk. Then he sat down on the bunk and pulled up his feet. Trip lowered himself on the foot end, and was still looking for words to begin a conversation when Malcolm spoke up.

"I'm sorry, Trip," he said. "I should have warned you. But I thought. . . " he trailed off and wiped a hand over his eyes, almost angrily. "I really thought I could do this."

Trip chewed on his lower lip. He had the feeling he didn't like at all, that he was going to be told a story that he wouldn't be able to enjoy but he knew he still needed to hear. "What is it you should have warned me about?" he asked.

Malcolm shook his head. "You don't want to do this, Trip," he said, and this time Trip could hear the resignation in his voice that almost bordered on cynicism if it hadn't carried that hurt undertone. "It's not worth it."

"Yes it is," Trip said without hesitation. "You're worth it. Please, Malcolm. I need to know."

Malcolm smiled without humor and shook his head. "No, Trip," he said. "You're awfully sweet and everything, but I am not going to bother you with this. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do this to you, and I'm really sorry it's not working out. But I guess it'll be best if you just forget about it."

At these words, Trip felt something like anger boil up inside him. He immediately squashed it. It didn't matter whether or not he had a right to feel it, at the moment it wasn't constructive. Malcolm however must have seen something in his face, because the smile vanished from his lips and he lowered his eyes.

"I can't just forget about it, Malcolm," Trip said, trying to convey trustworthiness in his voice. "I think you have to give us a try. We've come this far. We're entitled to give it a shot."

Malcolm said nothing, just stared down at his fingers that worried a loose thread on his pillow. Trip licked his lips. "Please, Mal," he said. "Please, it can't make things worse, can it?"

Malcolm closed his eyes for a moment, then looked up at him, the humorless smile back on his lips. "So, you really want to hear it?" he asked. "The Sad But True Story of Malcolm the Wretched?"

"Please," Trip said, not really knowing what he should make of Malcolm's mood but playing along for the moment. "And don't you dare leave out the gory details."

At that, Malcolm actually gave a small chuckle. "Don't worry," he said. "There's nothing _but_ gory details in this story."

He paused, and Trip let him gather his bearings. There was a small snap as the thread came off the pillow. Then Malcolm began to speak. "You probably know as well as anybody else on this ship that I don't get along very well with my family," he said. Trip nodded. Of course he knew, he remembered only too well Archer telling him about the conversation he'd had with Stuart and Mary Reed. "Yes, as I said," Malcolm continued. "Most people know. Few people know why, though."

He busied himself with pouring tea into the two cups and handed one to Trip. The smell of the dark murky liquid told Trip that the bags had been in there about five minutes too long, but he couldn't have cared less.

"You know these stories about ancient families, in which the father is pater familias and his word is law? My family's like that. Stuart Reed's word is not to be argued against. And if you cannot fulfill his expectations in you, if he gets only the slight impression that you don't worship the ideas he has for you, you've got a hard life." Malcolm paused, raised the cup to his lips and put it down again without taking a sip. "I don't want to make it sound worse than it was," he said. "I was never sexually abused, and he never hurt me in a way that would have been life-threatening. But I can't say that I had a good childhood. I could never be good enough for him. Too small, too undetermined. Not what he expected of his first-born son."

_~*~_

_Malcolm cowered under his desk in his room, his small body pressed against the back panel of the desk. He often came here when Father was angry with him. Father was big, and the space down here was small. Father barely came into his room, anyway. Malcolm had to come to him if Stuart Reed wanted to talk to his son._

_Malcolm's surroundings were blurred, and that wasn't only due to the tears that stood in his eyes. They had broken his glasses, again. Malcolm loathed his glasses, but he loathed even more not having them, not being able to see what was going on around him. He was only seven, still eight years away from the laser surgery that would correct his "visual defect", as the eye doctor called it. Eight years, that was longer than his life had been up until now. To Malcolm, eternity couldn't have sounded like a longer time._

_He didn't understand why they always had to break them. They didn't break them accidentally, when they pushed him or hit him. They actually took them away from him, and threw them to the ground or stepped on them, broke them on purpose. He hated the feeling when they did that. The way he could only see the outlines of them and had to determine by their laughing voices whether it was Huggers or Brettenham this time. He would love to stop them, to do what his father wanted him to do and show them that they couldn't take away his glasses and live to tell about it. But he was too much of a coward to do so. And now Father had said that he wouldn't buy any new glasses until next month, which was three weeks from now. What was he supposed to do until then? He couldn't see anything, how was he supposed to pay attention in class? And even more important, how was he supposed to know when to hide under the stairs in the janitor's cupboard to avoid being chased by Huggers and his buddies? The thought brought fresh tears to his eyes, and he put his right cheek against the desk's panel, cooling the spot where his father's palm had contacted with his cheekbone. Part of his mind wanted to be rebellious, wanted to think that it was unfair of his father to want him to fight back against two boys who were both stronger and at least a year older than he was, but he knew that it didn't matter. You had to defend yourself, no-one was going to do it for you, not now, not later on. That was what Father had said, and Malcolm knew it to be true. No-one had defended him so far. He had to learn to do it himself. But he couldn't imagine how to._

_~*~_

Trip listened to Malcolm recount events from his childhood in an almost emotionless tone of voice, and felt anger burn in his stomach. He'd had no idea. He'd known that Malcolm had never had an intact family life, but the way he was describing his father now, Trip got the distinct impression that the man had one or two serious mental problems. Trip had once or twice received a hiding from his mom or dad for the more reckless stunts he'd pulled, but looking back he could understand and justify the beating on each occasion. It hadn't happened very often, either. But what Malcolm was talking about was something else entirely. His father had obviously tyrannized the family, bullying his son into believing that he was a worthless piece of crap, scaring his wife into playing along, or at least not objecting, and ignoring his daughter completely. Malcolm was telling stories that sounded like events taken from a bad screenplay for a tearjerker soap episode, except that these had actually happened to him. Hearing Malcolm tell him how his father had beat him up and locked him into his room for three days just because he hadn't won the swimming competition didn't sound corny at all, it sounded terrible. Trip listened to him without interrupting, and it almost seemed as if Malcolm had slipped into a kind of trance, not noticing Trip's presence, lost in his memories.

"The year I turned eighteen was the year when I finished school," he said. "My father wanted me to join the Royal Navy, had already enrolled me at the Academy. I had spent the last year fighting with myself, trying to decide whether I was going to do it the easy way and go to the Navy, and face a life on the water, or whether I should finally stand up to him and do what I really wanted, which was join Starfleet. He almost had me there, I almost signed the form that would have confirmed my application for the British Academy of the Royal Navy. By that time, though, I had already discovered my homosexuality. I hadn't told him, of course, I did not yet have a death wish. But on the day I was supposed to sign the form--I had already packed all my stuff and was supposed to leave the next day--well, on that day my father discovered that a good friend of Maddy's was going out with a girl, not a boy. I'd never seen him get so angry with my sister, usually, he simply ignored her. But on that day, he chased her through the house, screaming at her how she could allow such an abomination, that was what he called it, abomination, even to come near her, let alone call that person a friend. He completely lost it, and that was the moment when I decided that I had to get away, I couldn't stay near him any longer."

_~*~_

_". . . and don't you ever, _ever_, dare bring that person to my house, don't you dare to go near her! If I find out that you have spoken to her after this day, I will make you remember who you are and who your betters are. You hear me, I will make you remember!"_

_Spittle flew from his father's lips, and Malcolm felt a shudder of disgust run down his spine. He was standing in the kitchen, watching Stuart and Maddy, who had ended their rampage through the house in the hallway, where Maddy stood backed up against the wall, her cheeks flushed both from Stuart's flat palms--those hurt, Malcolm knew from experience, and sometimes they left the ghostly image of four red fingers on your cheeks for hours--and from emotional agitation. Tears stood in her eyes, both from fear and anger, as Malcolm surmised, and she had clenched her hands to fists._

__Go on_, he thought, _go on and punch him a good one into his ugly face.__

_He'd have loved to have seen that, but he knew she couldn't do it. Stuart would kill her, literally. He didn't care about her, but if she touched him, he would kill her. Malcolm would have liked to punch him, would have given his right arm for it right now, even though this particular fight wasn't about him. At least Stuart thought it wasn't. Thank God he thought so._

_Malcolm knew Eva, and he knew her girlfriend Beate. They were both nice girls, less complicated than most girls in his class. And they were very discreet about their relationship, more than they would have to be. Almost all people Malcolm knew accepted same-gender relationships without question. Everybody, except his father. It seemed as though time had passed by the Reed residence without leaving a mark since 1911._

_He looked at his father, who was red-faced and looking almost ridiculous if it hadn't been for the immense danger Malcolm knew Stuart Reed represented in this state, and felt almost sick with hate and fear. But at the moment, hate was stronger. He hated this man with every fiber of his personality, and he wouldn't and couldn't spend his life under that man's thumb. He wouldn't join the Royal Navy, he wouldn't be punished for every mistake he made and told that any success was not enough, that he had to be better, faster, greater, that he had to fulfill Stuart's expectations. At this moment, Malcolm knew that eighteen years was all that this man was going to take from him. He wouldn't do this. He owed himself that much._

_Silently, he slipped past Maddy and Stuart and quickly climbed the stairs to his room. When he entered, he was greeted by the small heap of bags that was lying in the middle of the room. Malcolm grabbed the smallest one, and poured the contents onto the carpet. Then he began stuffing things into it, a few clothes, his toothbrush, a book, pen and paper, his pocket computer and his wallet. There was some money in it, his mother had given him something for his start at the Academy, and besides, he had his credit card. He would have to make do._

_He closed the clasps and slung the bag over his shoulder, then went to his desk and picked up the application for the Navy Academy. A formality, his name had been on the list for years. He crumpled it up, then unfolded it again and tore the sheet to pieces, letting the scraps of paper snow down to the floor. This was not going to be his future._

_He grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen, and paused, thinking about what to put in his note. Then he scribbled a short paragraph in his neat, efficient shorthand. _Dear Mum, dear Maddy,_ he wrote. _I'm not going to attend the Navy Academy. I'll be in touch. Talk to you soon, Malcolm._ He paused shortly, then added, _Stuart, leave me alone. This is my life, not yours. I am going to handle it my way from now on.__

_He left the note on the desk so anyone who cared to look would see it. Then he let his eyes wander across the room one more time. There was nothing here that was important to him, not in this room, not in the whole house. Well, of course there were Maddy and his mother, and he did feel as if he were abandoning them. Hell, he _was_ abandoning them. But he didn't know what else to do. Joining the Navy wasn't an option, and staying here and not joining in wasn't either. _I guess I've decided for survival instinct_, he thought, and felt a bitter smile play about his lips. In survival, you were alone. He'd learned that much._

_He crossed the room and opened the window. This was the first floor, and he would have had to jump three meters to the ground if it hadn't been for the tree in front of his window. Like this, he simply climbed onto the old cherry tree and from there to the ground. It was almost too easy. He could have done this years ago. _You're doing it now,_ he thought. _That has to be enough.__

_~*~_

"I caught a cab to the station, and bought a ticket to the nearest airport," Malcolm said. He had progressed to fiddling with the hem of the pillowcase, and still wasn't looking at Trip. Trip had the impression he wasn't looking at anything at all. "From there, I went to San Francisco. My money was enough to buy me a few nights at a cheap hotel, and I went to the Starfleet Academy to enroll. I had no idea what I would do if they didn't take me. There was no Plan B. I enrolled and got myself a job in a restaurant that would pay the rent until I got word whether I was in Starfleet or not. I kept moving around, from hotel to hotel, and when I finally got a one-room-place that was in my price range, after two weeks I got so nervous I moved out again without terminating my rental contract. I was so scared that my father would find me that I used a pseudonym everywhere except with Starfleet Academy. I hardly slept or ate. After five weeks Starfleet finally informed me that I was in. I began attending the courses, but with my job and my constant moving around, it wasn't easy to stay focused. After the first three weeks I had flunked two exams already, and I was nearing the point where I'd have returned to England and joined the Navy after all."

Malcolm fell silent, and Trip could see his jaw working. He felt sympathy and anger burn in his stomach. He really had had no idea. He never would have thought that the quiet man that was Enterprise's Armory Officer was hiding such a life story. He had never imagined that he knew _anybody_ who had a life story even close to what Malcolm was telling him.

"What happened?" Trip asked, encouraging Malcolm to continue. The story wasn't over, Trip could feel as much. He saw Malcolm swallow.

"I met Curt," Malcolm said, and paused for a moment as if he were going to add something important. "I'd met him before," he continued then, "at the introductory seminar, and I ended up in the same Basic Physics course with him. He. . . at that time in my life, he was the only one who even only recognized me. No-one showed any interest in me, they were all busy and excited with starting a new episode in their lives, and I was too busy keeping the little life I had together to indulge in any socializing. But Curt. . . he noticed me. He didn't simply ignore me like all the others. And one time, after I had flunked another exam and was sitting in the library, trying to catch up enough so I would at least understand what they were talking about in class, he sat down at my table and offered to study with me. Just like that." Malcolm paused, and Trip felt an agonizing dread. He didn't think he could stand it if there was more. But there would be, he was sure of that. And he owed it to Malcolm to hear him out. Malcolm sighed and slung his arms around his knees that he had drawn up to his chin. "Well, to make a long story short, we got together eventually. He was like the Good Samaritan to me, my savior that had come to my rescue. He didn't only help me study, as soon as he found out about my moving around, he decided that I was going to move in with him. His parents had rented him one of the teachers' apartments right on the campus. When I told him about Stuart, he didn't care at all, and because he wasn't afraid, I wasn't afraid anymore. I was so beat at that time, so sick and tired, that I happily left all major and minor decisions to Curt and simply let go. My grades got better, and for a few weeks I was the happiest student at Starfleet Academy." Again, Malcolm trailed off, and Trip waited. He didn't think that he should say anything. Malcolm had to find his own way of telling this story. After a moment, Malcolm opened his mouth again.

"Curt was a motorcycle fiend. He owned one himself, an old, huge beast he called Betty, don't ask me why. All his buddies had motorcycles, too. I didn't like it when he rode it, I thought and still think that riding a motorcycle is one of the most stupid and reckless things you can do. But I didn't say so, of course. I would never have doubted anything Curt decided to do. Well, anyway, one night he took me to this party they had at a friend's house, and we went there on the motorcycle. Riding it was one of the worst experiences of my life, but I didn't tell Curt so. He really loved that bike, and I didn't want to hurt his feelings, so I told him I had enjoyed the ride. So, we went to the party, and Curt got pissed. I'd never seen anyone drink so much beer in such a short amount of time. I didn't like it, he was a loud drunk, and his buddies were even louder. But everything was going alright, until Curt decided it was time to leave."

_~*~_

_"Well, guys, it's been nice and everything, and we should do this again real soon!" Curt and his friends burst out laughing, as if Curt's remark had been the wittiest one they'd heard in years. Malcolm forced a smile and at the same time had to keep himself from pulling on Curt's sleeve. He really wanted to leave. Watching six other men compete in getting drunk wasn't his idea of fun._

_With a last inarticulate sound of good-bye, Curt turned around and would have missed the door if Malcolm hadn't given him a gentle shove in the right direction. Curt didn't notice, though, but continued to chuckle under his breath and made his unsteady way towards his motorcycle he had parked at the end of the drive when they had arrived four hours ago. Malcolm hesitated. Curt wouldn't really be stupid enough to try and ride that motorcycle all the way back to the apartment in his condition. He could be somewhat venturesome at times, but he had never displayed reckless behavior in the four weeks they'd been together._

_But at the moment it looked like he was actually determined to ride Betty home. He was fiddling with the keys that would unlock the chain with which he had secured the bike, cursing under his breath. He'd already donned his helmet, which was open-faced and had a strap that closed under the chin. Malcolm noticed that the strap was twisted. He swallowed and walked the few steps over to where Curt was standing._

_"Curt?" he asked, but there was no answer. Curt had finally succeeded in unlocking the chain and was now stowing it away in the storage compartment of the bike. He had a concentrated look on his face and was actually chewing on his lower lip, a thing Malcolm had seen him do only when he was trying to solve a very complicated problem. Malcolm felt uneasiness settle in the area below his chest. He knew that Curt didn't like to be told what he had to do, but he couldn't let him ride his bike when he couldn't even walk a straight line. "Curt, do you want me to call a cab?"_

_At first Malcolm thought he wouldn't get an answer this time either, but after a moment, Curt shook his head with an irritated expression on his face._

_"What the hell would I want with a cab?" he asked, and Malcolm swallowed. He didn't like the way the situation was developing._

_"Curt, I don't think you should ride your bike like this," he said, and almost took a step backwards as Curt looked up, the expression on his face threatening._

_"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" His voice had gotten louder. "I shouldn't ride my bike like what?"_

_Malcolm looked at him, unsure what to say. Part of him whished he'd kept his mouth shut, but it was too late for that now. "Well. . . Curt. . . you know, you had a few beers, and you shouldn't be drinking and driving, right?"_

_Curt looked at him for a moment, his features displaying something like surprise. "Why you. . ." He shook his head, as if Malcolm had made the most ridiculous statement he'd ever heard. "Drinking and driving, my ass," he said. "Did Momma tell you that one? Listen, honeybunch, whether I am able to drive or not is still _my_ decision. You hear me?"_

_Malcolm felt his heart beat in his chest, and nodded. "Sure, Curt," he said. "I'm sorry."_

_Curt chuckled. "Drinking and driving, you're so cute sometimes. You can trust me, I know what I'm doing." He reached out and ruffled Malcolm's hair. Malcolm had a hard time not to pull back from the touch. He hated it when Curt did that. But instead of evading Curt's hand, he smiled another fake smile and simply said, "Okay."_

_Curt shook his head indulgently and turned back to his bike. He kicked back the stand and swung one leg over the seat. Malcolm hesitated. If Curt was determined to risk his life riding his beast when he was drunk, there wasn't much Malcolm could do to stop him. But he didn't think that he would be suicidal enough to get on himself._

_"What's the matter?" Curt sounded quite impatient. "Hop on, little guy."_

_Malcolm bit his lip. "I don't think I want to, Curt," he said and heard a quiver in his own voice. Curt turned his head, and all good-naturedness had disappeared from his face._

_"What's that supposed to mean, you don't want to? You're really pissing me off right now, Malcolm."_

_Malcolm tried to tell himself that Curt wasn't that drunk, and that it would be okay, but still his legs wouldn't move. After a moment, Curt got off the bike, and stood directly in front of him. His breath that smelled of stale beer and potato chips hit Malcolm in the face, and Malcolm felt himself go rigid with fear. Curt's voice was very low as he spoke._

_"Get on the bike."_

_Malcolm couldn't move. A second later, he staggered backwards as Curt's flat palm connected with his cheekbone. Instinctively, Malcolm raised his hands to protect himself. A hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head upwards._

_"Get on the bike, right now!"_

_Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut, feeling tears both of pain and fright spill over. "Please, Curt, stop it!" He cried out as Curt shook him. It felt as if his scalp was being ripped off his head._

_"Get on the goddamn bike, you little shit!" The hand let go of his hair and Malcolm almost fell as Curt pushed him in the direction of the motorcycle. He steadied himself by holding on to the seat. Liquid dripped onto the dark leather, and when Malcolm wiped a hand over his nose, it came away bloody. Before he could do anything, he received another blow into his kidneys that almost made his knees buckle and sent a bolt of pain through his body._

_"Go on, get on the bike!"_

_Quickly, Malcolm climbed onto the seat. All thoughts about the danger of riding with a drunk had disappeared from his mind. Actually, most rational thought had disappeared from his mind. He only knew that he had to do what Curt told him, or Curt would never stop._

_"See, wasn't that hard." Curt climbed onto the motorcycle as well, and kicked the engine to life. The vibrations of the bike made the pain in Malcolm's back and nose flare up, and he bit his lip to stifle the cry that was trying to escape him. Before he could reach out to hold on to Curt, the other man grabbed him by the wrists and yanked his arms forward._

_"You'll have to hold on or you'll fall off, dimwit."_

_Malcolm interlaced his fingers in front of Curt's stomach, and Curt took his feet off the ground. They quickly gained speed and the airstream was cold on Malcolm's wet cheeks. He buried his face in Curt's back and hated the way the other man smelled and how the wind pulled his hair, and wished it to simply be over._

_~*~_

"We got home more or less alright. I have no idea whether beating me up sobered him up or whether we just got lucky. When we got home he told me to go clean myself up, and I locked myself in the bathroom for over two hours. I didn't dare come out, I was afraid he'd still be mad. When I went to bed, Curt was already asleep. I lay down next to him and slept as well. I didn't know what else to do."

Malcolm fell silent, and stared into his tea cup which was still full. Trip couldn't make out any emotion on his face, but he noticed the way Malcolm's jaw was working and the cords in his neck were moving. He considered reaching out and touching the other man, but thought better of it. He didn't think Malcolm would want to be touched at the moment. Trip licked his lips, not knowing what to say, whether to say anything. After a moment Malcolm began to speak again. "That night Curt had obviously crossed some kind of line in his mind. From then on it happened more and more often that he hit me, because I did something wrong, was too slow, or handled things a way he didn't approve of. He didn't need to be drunk to do it. At first, he apologized afterwards, but after a while that stopped too. It was just the way it was. He was in charge, and I was punished when I didn't do what he wanted of me. Or if I did it wrong. Or simply when he had a bad day."

"Why did you stay?" Trip hadn't really meant to ask, but the question blurted out almost by itself. Malcolm didn't answer immediately. Then he shrugged.

"I don't know. I think I didn't know how to leave him. I didn't have anyone except him. Didn't know anyone. I kept telling myself that he wouldn't do it again. That it wasn't right of him to do it, but that I was provoking it. That it wasn't all his fault. I guess I did the exact things people in that kind of situation are known to do." He smiled humorlessly, and Trip saw that his eyes were brighter than usual. But they were dry.

"I was different then, you know," Malcolm continued. "More vulnerable. I never hit back. I guess you could have called me a coward without being too unfair. I just let it happen, and accepted it as the way it was."

"You are no coward, Malcolm," Trip said. "I'd say I know you at least a little bit, and I know you're no coward."

"I was then," Malcolm said. "Curt was able to take over control completely. There was nothing and no-one to stop him. I was easy prey, and he knew it."

_~*~_

_Malcolm was sitting on the couch, holding a beer bottle from which he'd taken one sip and had let the beer grow warm after that. He was watching Curt, who was reclining in one of the armchairs and was reciting adventures from his time with his high school soccer team. From what Malcolm could tell, most of those stories came down to one thing: that Curt had beaten the living daylights out of some other guy. Bill and Rich, who had come over to watch a football game and drink a beer or two, obviously thought Curt's stories to be very entertaining. They laughed and grunted in all the right places, and every time Curt was finished with one story, they encouraged him to another one. Malcolm figured they would have to stop soon. Shortly after he had arrived, Bill had said that he had an exam the next day, and couldn't stay longer than until midnight. It was quarter to._

_". . . and then the ref, he comes walking up to me, and he's the smallest fucking _midget_ I'd ever seen, he barely reached my chest when he styled his hair, is what I'm saying." Curt took a sip of his beer and continued. "Anyways, he comes walking up to me, and tells me that I have to keep my shots _lower_, dude, can't aim your shots at other people's faces, that's foul play. And I say, hey, ref, if I keep 'em lower, aren't you afraid I might hit _you_ in your ugly face?" The three of them burst out laughing, and Malcolm chuckled dutifully. He fell quiet almost immediately, though, and Bill turned his head to look at him. Malcolm disliked Bill the most of Curt's buddies. He had a sly, false manner about him that made the alarms in Malcolm's head go off. Right now, he was scrutinizing Malcolm with a speculative look that made Malcolm feel very self-conscious._

_"And here I was thinking you liked small men, Curt," Bill said. "Malcolm here ain't the tallest tree in the forest either, is he."_

_Rich giggled, and Curt threw Malcolm a look that probably looked amused to his friends, but to Malcolm seemed more threatening than anything else. "He has other qualities. Right, Malc?"_

_Malcolm smiled nervously and moved his head in a gesture that was half a nod and half a shrug. Now all three were looking at him, and Malcolm whished they would go back to trading soccer stories. They could chat all night if they wanted to. As long as they left him alone._

_"Other qualities?" Rich had joined the conversation. "Like what?"_

_There was definitely something leery about the way Rich first looked at Curt, then back at Malcolm. Malcolm felt his cheeks grow hot. He didn't like this at all, and threw Curt a pleading side glance. But Curt only looked at him with a reserved, almost imperious look. Malcolm got the message, Curt wanted him to deal with this, and if he embarrassed himself or Curt in any way, there would be consequences. Malcolm felt his stomach tie itself into a tight knot._

_Bill as well had his eyes glued on Malcolm. "Maybe you could show us, huh? Malc? Wanna show us your _other qualities_?"_

_Suddenly, Malcolm felt sick. He didn't know whether it was the fear he felt, or the disgust for Bill and Rich. Probably a combination. What he knew was that he had to get out of there. Quickly, he got to his feet, his face still twisted into that false smile. "Please excuse me, guys," he said. "I need to step outside for a second."_

_With that, he all but fled from the living room and slipped into the bathroom, double-locking the door behind himself. He sat down on the closed toilet and put his face in his shaking hands. Curt would kill him. But he could not have stayed there one moment longer. He would have puked all over the coffee table._

_He pulled his legs up and slung his arms around his knees. He realized that he was shaking all over. Fear was pulling on his insides. He buried his face in his knees, making himself as small as possible, and didn't move. Usually, doing this made him feel safer. Right now, though, it didn't really work._

_After about ten minutes he heard noises from the corridor. It sounded as if Rich and Bill were leaving. He heard a rustling as the two of them slipped into their jackets, then there was a clicking sound as the front door was opened._

_"I'll see you in a couple of days," Curt's muffled voice carried into the bathroom. Malcolm didn't understand Rich's answer. A second after that, the front door was closed again. Malcolm felt himself go rigid. They were alone in the apartment. He held his breath, waiting. Soon, he heard steps approaching the bathroom. He jumped as Curt banged his fist against the door._

_"Malcolm, open up," Curt called, and at the barely controlled fury in his voice, Malcolm felt his breath hitch in his throat. "Open up, right now."_

_Malcolm tightened his grip on his knees. He wouldn't open up. Opening the door would be suicide. Curt rapped his fists against the door again, and at each bang, Malcolm winced. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears squirting out from under his closed lids._

_"Malcolm, if you don't open up, I will break the door down. You don't want to make me break it down."_

_The open threat in Curt's voice probably got him going. Before he knew what he was doing, Malcolm had gotten up and was unlocking the door. When the key had turned for the second time, the door flew open, driving Malcolm back against the sink. He sucked in a breath as his back contacted painfully with the chrome of the fittings. Then there was Curt, who had fury written all across his face and was advancing on him. In a timid gesture of defense, Malcolm raised his hands, but Curt grabbed him by the wrists and pushed his hands aside. Then he was directly in front of Malcolm, his angry face only centimeters from Malcolm's. Malcolm felt his own breath going fast, and he reached behind himself, holding on to the sink._

_"What do you think you were doing in there?" Curt hissed, and spittle flew from his lips, hitting Malcolm in the face. Malcolm tried to pull back even further, but he couldn't._

_"Please, Curt," he said, and heard the open fear in his own voice. "Please, I didn't mean to do anything wrong."_

_Curt backhanded him across the face and grabbed him by the collar as he almost lost his balance from the blow. "What's that supposed to mean?" Curt asked. "Bill and Rich, they were laughing at me. You embarrassed me. Just because you swallowed your goddamn fucking tongue!" At the last word, Curt punched him in the stomach, and Malcolm doubled over, sure he was going to vomit right onto Curt's boot-clad feet. The feeling passed quickly, though, as a hand grabbed his hair and yanked him upwards again. Malcolm cried out and instinctively raised his hands to protect himself. Curt batted them away with his free hand._

_"You dirty little bastard, look at yourself. You're pathetic. I shoulda dumped you long ago. I would have if you weren't such a good fuck!"_

_And, startling Malcolm into immobility, Curt grabbed him and pulled him close, kissing him roughly enough so Malcolm felt his lip burst open and tasted blood. Curt's huge body was pressed against his, and Malcolm could feel the other man's erection pressing against his belly. He was rigid with fear, was holding his breath and felt his heart beat in his throat. This wasn't happening._

_As sudden as he had closed in, Curt stepped back and grabbed Malcolm's shoulder, spinning him around so he was facing the sink. Malcolm caught a short impression of himself in the mirror above the sink; wide, terrified eyes staring at him from over tear- and blood-streaked cheeks. Then Curt grabbed him by the neck and pushed him down so he was bent forward over the sink. In the process, Malcolm hit his forehead on the faucet, and a spell of dizziness ran through him, so that he didn't really notice Curt tearing away the pants he was wearing. Only when his underpants ripped Malcolm realized what was happening._

__He's raping me_, Malcolm thought, detached, as if he were only watching what was happening. _He's actually raping me_._

_Then he was brought back to reality with an agonizing jerk as Curt entered him. It was a pain worse than anything Malcolm had ever felt, as if his insides were torn apart. He let out a cry of pain and felt his knees buckle, but Curt wouldn't let go, thrusting forward again and again, bringing new waves of pain with every movement. Malcolm dug his fingers into his hair and tasted blood and salt in his mouth as he was shoved against the sink again and again._

_Finally, the pain receded, and the weight that had been holding his body upright disappeared as well. Malcolm slid to the floor, sobbing and panting, trying to squeeze some air into his chest that seemed impossibly tight. He curled up into a tight ball, and another wave of pain ran through him as he felt a boot connect with his ribs. Through the blood roaring in his ears he heard Curt's voice as if from far away. "Little useless piece o' shit, this will teach you to play the sensitive one."_

_Malcolm didn't react, just wrapped his arms around his head and waited for the next blow. But it didn't come. He just lay there, tears and snot and blood running over his cheeks, and the pain in his insides still burning. _Please_, he thought, _please, just let me die. I don't want this, I can't do this. Just let me die.__

_~*~_

Malcolm fell silent. Trip stared at him, shocked and wide-eyed, feeling tears trace their way down his cheeks. He reached out with one hand, but didn't dare to touch the other man. At the movement, Malcolm raised his head and met Trip's gaze. In his eyes Trip could see a hurt that was deeper than anything Trip had ever seen in Malcolm's eyes. He bit his lip and shook his head.

"Mal," he said, his voice unsteady. "Mal, I'm so sorry."

Malcolm didn't react, just turned his head away again and tightened his grip around his knees. His eyes were still dry, but when he spoke, his voice was harsh.

"After that evening, I completely turned my life over to Curt. I slipped into some kind of apathetic trance. I couldn't do, say or even think anything without his permission. I don't even remember much of that time. It was as if I were sleepwalking."

Trip raised a hand to wipe the tears off his cheek. _How on Earth could you stay after he did something like that?_ He didn't ask. He didn't think that Malcolm would be able to explain, it probably couldn't be explained rationally. Instead, he sought out Malcolm's eyes again. "How did you get out?" he asked. Malcolm raised his eyebrows, lost in thoughts.

"Curt died," he said. "About two weeks after he raped me. He was riding his motorcycle, drunk, I suppose. I don't know. He rounded a bend across a truck's right of way, and crashed into a road sign. He was dead on scene, they didn't even bother to bring him to the ER. A flying piece of junk had decapitated him. They called me in to identify him. I remember standing there, in the morgue, looking at his dead body with the detached head and trying to understand what was going on. It was as if my whole world had suddenly been pulled away from under my feet. Curt had been running my life. With him gone, I had no idea where to turn."

"What did you do?" Trip asked, trying to imagine what it would be like to be in a situation like Malcolm was describing it. He didn't quite succeed.

"Bill took me in," Malcolm said. "I was so stunned by what had happened, I didn't realize I was jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. And Bill was nice to me, in the beginning at least. He took over, talked to Curt's family and got my stuff out of Curt's place. I spent the next weeks living in a daze, trying to understand the changes that had taken place in my life. But slowly, I began to realize that I had gotten damn lucky. That Curt getting killed might have been my second chance. That was also the time when I realized that Bill was not the one I should be putting my bets on. He proved me right no more than three weeks after Curt had died."

_~*~_

_Malcolm was standing at the banister of the balcony of Bill's small apartment, looking over the houses of the Starfleet Academy complex. It was late in the evening, and except for a few lonely cadets, the campus was deserted. Malcolm loved these mild San Francisco evenings. He'd been living in this city for two years now, and knew that the weather could be everything but mild. But from time to time, it cleared up and then you had these nice, not-too-warm not-too-chilly breezes coming in from the sea, turning Fog City into Brighton during summertime._

_Three days ago, summer break had begun here at Starfleet Academy. Most cadets had left for a visit at home, but Malcolm had stayed, like he always did. He sporadically corresponded with his mother and Maddy, but he didn't think it was safe yet to go anywhere near Stuart. He didn't know if it ever would be._

_Nevertheless, Malcolm had enjoyed those three free days. He'd finally been able to clear his head. He knew where he was going now. He would move out, find a room on the campus and would concentrate on his studies. No more relationships. No other people in his life. Just him, and his text books, his career. It sounded like paradise to him._

_He felt his stomach rumble and reminded himself that he still had to grab something to eat before he turned in for the night. Somehow he had tended to simply forget meals those last few weeks, but he didn't give it a lot of thought. As soon as he had his life in order, that would change, too, he was sure. Right now, he simply ate when his stomach told him to._

_Turning away from the quiet evening scenery, Malcolm entered the living room where Bill was sitting in front of the TV, watching a basketball game and eating potato chips. Malcolm was about to go past the couch into the kitchen when Bill looked up._

_"Hey, Malc," he said. "C'mon, sit down and watch the game. Chicago's in the lead."_

_Without much interest, Malcolm threw a glance at the TV screen and saw a tall guy in a red tricot run toward the basket and score in one fluent movement._

_"Beautiful, innit," Bill commented, and Malcolm nodded. He didn't care much about which team the guy in the red tricot belonged to, but he had to admit that the way the athlete had evaded his opponents and had all but dropped the ball into the basket as if it were no more than a walk in the park had looked quite impressive. Instead of continuing toward the kitchen, Malcolm walked over to one of the armchairs. Potato chips for dinner might not be exactly what he had imagined, but he could still get himself something to eat after the game if he thought it to be necessary. Before he could sit down, however, Bill moved over on the couch and patted his flat palm onto the couch next to him._

_"Sit over here, you don't have a good view from that armchair."_

_Malcolm shrugged and lowered himself onto the couch next to Bill. For a while, the two of them watched the game in silence, eating potato chips. From time to time, Bill grunted when something important happened on the screen. Malcolm was also absorbed in the game, trying to figure out who was winning. That was probably why he didn't realize that Bill was slowly but steadily sliding towards him on the couch until they sat shoulder on shoulder, their knees touching. Malcolm only noticed something was going on when he suddenly felt Bill's hand settle on his thigh. He looked up sharply and met Bill's eyes that were no longer on the screen but directly looking at him._

_"What are you doing?" Malcolm asked, feeling adrenaline rush through him and tighten his chest. Bill smiled in a way that he probably thought to be seductive._

_"What do you think I'm doing?" he asked. Malcolm quickly moved away from him, so that Bill's hand slid off his leg._

_"Stop it, Bill," he said, hearing the tension in his voice. Bill only smiled his disgusting smile again and slid further towards Malcolm on the couch._

_"C'mon, Malc," he said. "Don't be such a girl. I'm sure we could have some fun together."_

_Malcolm got to his feet and took a step away from the couch. Fear burned in his stomach, but there was anger as well, fury even. It was the first time that he felt it and didn't think it to be unjustified. What the hell did Bill think he was doing?_

_"Stop it," he said again. "I don't want this."_

_Bill's expression changed from suggestive to infuriated in less than a second. He jumped to his feet as well._

_"Don't play hard to get, Malcolm," he said. "Curt told me that if he hadn't kept you on a short leash you'd've been fucking every rent boy on the street. I know that you're a little slut. So don't play hard to get, Malcolm."_

_At Bill's words, all fear disappeared, and there was only fury left. Hate, for Bill, and for Curt who had told such outrageous lies. Malcolm clenched his hands to fists, trying to suppress the shaking that had taken hold of his body._

_"I don't give a fuck what Curt said about me," he said, his voice so tense it was almost unsteady. "I don't give a fuck what you think about me. I am not going to do what you want from me, no matter what you do, so just forget about it and leave me the hell alone."_

_Without warning, Bill raised his hand and swung his fist in direction of Malcolm's face. But the blow never hit home. With a quick move that he'd learned in security training last week, Malcolm caught Bill's fist in mid-air and shoved the other man backwards with all his might. Then, not rationally deciding to do so, he pounced on the other man and drove him to the ground, pinning him to the floor and punching him in the face, again and again._

_"You are _not_ going to do this," he panted between punches. "You are not going to do this to me again."_

_Bill, who had obviously not expected Malcolm's attack, recovered from his surprise rather quickly. He got his hands free and caught Malcolm's fists, managing to shake Malcolm off._

_"What the _fuck_?" he screamed, and got to his feet. Malcolm quickly gathered his bearings and was standing as well not one second later. All rational thought had disappeared from his mind, what was left were the moves he had learned in his training and one thought, that he wouldn't let the other man do this to him. When Bill attacked, Malcolm was prepared. He caught his opponent by the wrists and twisted his arms. Bill's scream of agony brought back reality, and Malcolm let go, not without giving Bill a last push. Bill staggered a few feet and fell to his knees in front of the couch, with his left hand holding onto his right shoulder. Bill's right arm was dangling limply, and Malcolm acknowledged that the shoulder was obviously dislocated. He simply stood and watched Bill for a moment, trying to catch his breath. The fury had disappeared, leaving behind a feeling of triumph and satisfaction. He had not let Bill do what the man had wanted. Never again he would have to let anybody do what they wanted with him._

_~*~_

A small smile played about Malcolm's lips as he finished the story. Trip was looking at the other man, feeling the same feelings as Malcolm's smile conveyed. There was a moment of silence, then Trip spoke up.

"What happened then?"

"I brought Bill to the San Francisco ER so he could get his shoulder reduced." Malcolm's smile broadened. "The folks in the ER, they knew me. I'd shown up there frequently over the last two years with some small injury or other. Of course they knew what had been going on with Curt and me, and they'd always tried everything they could to help me. But I didn't cooperate, wouldn't even talk to a social worker. Anyway, when I brought Bill in with a broken nose and a dislocated shoulder, they. . . " Malcolm trailed off, laughing a little. "They congratulated me. They gave me pats on the back and let me have a piece of their chocolate cake. You can't imagine how good that felt. They admitted Bill for observation--they did that so I could get my stuff out of Bill's apartment. I moved into a hotel for a few nights and found myself a room on the campus. For the first time in my life, I was completely on my own, and it felt good. I liked it that way. And I promised myself to never let anyone take away my control again."

Malcolm's smile had vanished, and once more he was fiddling with the rim of the pillowcase. Trip watched him closely. Now that he knew what Malcolm had gone through in his life, he realized a few things about the other man. Why Malcolm was so closed-off. Why he never talked about himself or his family. Why it had taken him so long to let something develop between him and Trip. And of course, why he had run away earlier this evening. Trip sucked in his lower lip.

"So you never had a relationship afterwards?" he asked, and Malcolm shook his head.

"No," he said. "Never. I didn't want to. I didn't even want to have any close friends. I wrote home less frequently, and if I wrote, it were vague letters full of phrases and meaningless statements. I liked being self-sufficient. And I never stayed anywhere for very long. The rotations in the beginning of Starfleet's practical training contributed to this lifestyle. When I was chosen to be a part of Enterprise's senior crew, I didn't think about the fact that it would mean spending five years with the same people in close quarters. I was so excited about this chance that I didn't waste one thought on it. And when I'd lived on Enterprise for a while and realized that when you got to know people closer, they weren't that bad after all, I figured I would be okay. And when I realized that. . . when I got to know you a little closer, for the first time in years I found that being alone wasn't enough for me after all." Malcolm looked up at him, and Trip saw the brightness in his eyes. "I gave it a lot of thought, Trip, believe me. I really thought I could do this. I'm so sorry it didn't work out."

A tear escaped and trailed its way down Malcolm's cheek, and Trip felt a lump in his throat that was almost choking him. He got up, and sat down next to Malcolm, cautiously putting an arm around his shoulders. When Malcolm didn't try to back away, Trip pulled the other man a little closer.

"I'm glad you told me," Trip said. "And I don't think we should give up that easily. I think that you showed one hell of a lot of courage by trying to get close to anyone again. That effort shouldn't have been for nothing."

Malcolm shook his head slightly. "It's not about courage," he said, his voice low and rough. "I'm not afraid of someone. . . someone touching me the wrong way. I know that if anybody only tries to do that, they will find themselves in the hospital in no time. It's more. . . you know, Trip, it's more that I wish I could let someone touch me the _right_ way again."

Trip felt a shudder run through the other man, and heard a small sob escape him. He squeezed Malcolm's shoulder and bit his lip, trying to hold back his own tears that were burning behind his eyelids.

"You'll manage," he said, putting as much certainty in his voice as he could. "I know you can do it, Mal. You're strong enough, you've proven it. There'll always be setbacks, but we gotta keep trying. We can do this. I'll help you. I promise."

Malcolm didn't answer. He had his face buried in Trip's shoulder, and Trip could feel the tremors that were running through him. He wrapped his arms around the other man and stroked the dark strands of hair, making shushing sounds and blinking back his own tears. The feelings inside his chest were confusing him. He felt hate for the people that had hurt Malcolm, for ruining Malcolm's life but also for making it so hard for him and Malcolm now. He knew that he cared deeply for the other man, maybe even loved him, and hearing about people treating him like a toy, like some _thing_ without feelings of its own, triggered a fury in him that he found hard to control. But he also felt so sorry for Malcolm, wished that he could take away all the hurt and knew that he couldn't. The only thing he could do was try and make things work out between them, help Malcolm put those old feelings and memories behind him. And he would try. There was no way that he wouldn't.

After a while--Trip had no idea how long a time--the shaking of Malcolm's body subsided. The sobs trailed off and Malcolm's breathing grew more regular. Trip waited another couple of minutes until he was entirely sure that Malcolm was asleep, then carefully let go of him. Malcolm didn't wake up, only turned around and buried his head in the pillow. Trip reached out and gently wiped off the tears that were drying on Malcolm's cheeks. Then he took a blanket from the closet and spread it over Malcolm's sleeping form. He stood there for a moment, looking at Malcolm. There was no way he was leaving him alone tonight. After a minute's consideration, Trip slipped out of his boots, got another blanket and lay down next to Malcolm. It was a while until he fell asleep, but when he did he did so with the reassurance of Malcolm's presence beside him and with the knowledge that things would work out alright.


End file.
